


Hound Dog (From Hell)

by Selenay



Series: The Demon and the Librarian [3]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Clint With a Tail, Crack, Demon Clint Barton, Librarian Phil Coulson, M/M, Supernatural violence, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 11:31:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1145462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selenay/pseuds/Selenay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Phil summoned an imp and got demon, he probably should have asked <em>why</em> he got a demon. And what kind of baggage a demon like Clint might bring with him.</p><p>The good thing with demons is that their baggage never stays hidden for long. Or maybe that's not such a good thing after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hound Dog (From Hell)

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, there wasn't supposed to be such a big gap between stories. Promise, I'll do better next time.
> 
> If you've got any violence triggers, take a peek at the end notes for the trigger warnings.

The casting chamber under the library was lit by the flickering light of dozens of candles. Most were thick, serviceable white ones with that burned hot and bright; one candlestick was elegant and red and it burned with a cool blue flame. It had been set just outside the circle burned into the floor, on the northern compass point.

Phil had to edge past it carefully because the location was inconveniently close to one wall and he had a strong suspicion that kicking it over would be a very bad thing to do in the middle of a powerful ritual.

He was on his third circuit around the containment circle, walking counter-clockwise and throwing red sand into the brazier positioned at the southern compass point with each turn. The air was filled with the thick, cloying scent of herbs and burning incense, and every time he took a deep breath, it threatened to turn into a coughing fit. As he was supposed to be chanting a very long spell that jumped back and forth between Latin and Medieval French randomly, coughing seemed like as bad an idea as knocking over the red candle.

The whole ritual seemed like a bad idea, actually, but he was starting to run out of ways to send his demon back to where it had come from.

Irritatingly, Clint seemed quite happy to lounge around inside the containment circle with a book. Every now and again he chuckled as he turned a page and Phil gritted his teeth. He was partway through the most complex spell he'd ever cast, and the subject of the spell was more interested in the adventures of Granny Weatherwax and her coven than the difficult and complicated magic happening around him.

Then again, Phil probably shouldn't have been surprised. They'd attempted three other rituals over the last couple of weeks and so far, Clint had read his way through all of them.

Phil finished another circuit and threw red sand into the brazier, swallowing down a cough as the flames billowed up and the smell of rotten eggs joined the other fumes in the chamber.

Clint snorted and turned a page, shifting slightly so that his t-shirt rucked up and exposed an inch of perfectly tanned, muscular abdomen.

That was the other aspect that was making Phil feel irritable and unsettled. Clint had dialled down his seduction attempts slightly--he was no longer making blatant and filthy suggestions every ten minutes, at least--but now he was being subtle. Just little hints at what Phil could have if he gave into temptation. Glimpses of golden skin, sly smiles, and hot bedroom eyes that turned innocent with a blink.

Somehow, that was actually a lot more difficult to resist than Clint propositioning him every day.

For a moment, Phil's tongue caught on a more difficult passage, but he recovered quickly and blamed the tiny crabbed handwriting in his book rather than Clint's distracting lounging.

Clint looked up when Phil started his fifth circuit. "Can we get Indian on the way home? My butt's frozen to the floor and I think curry would warm me right up."

Phil gritted his teeth and ignored him. Clint smirked and turned his attention back to the book.

At the end of the sixth circuit around the room, Phil threw the ritual handful of sand on the brazier and the flames turned green. He couldn't remember reading anything in the books about a colour change, but it was too late to break off and go hunting for a reference. He pretended to ignore the defeated feeling in his gut and continued chanting and walking. Clint's expression didn't change, but that was never a reliable guide. So far, the only time Clint had interfered with any of the spells was during the second one, when he reminded Phil to drop some sage into the brazier at a crucial moment.

It still rankled slightly that Clint had helped him with that spell--the sage was one of the important components, three books all agreed--and it still hadn't worked.

Clint was strangely calm about all the attempts to send him back and each failure only made him look happier. A happy demon seemed like a very worrying thing to Phil.

The seventh verse of the spell was the most critical and Phil focused intently as he walked and chanted, keeping to the rhythm despite the complicated pronunciation and the way some of the words didn't quite fit into the established syllable pattern. This was one of the problems with very old rituals: people tried to make words fit into places they didn't belong because they'd established a sound early in the spell and they wanted to maintain it. Phil was fairly sure the old priests and magicians had done it to make sure only very experienced casters could work the spells. The theory fitted with ideas he'd been developing ever since he'd learned that summoning demons wasn't as much of a myth as he'd assumed.

He reached the end of the verse--and the circuit--with a sense of relief and threw his final handful of sand into the brazier. The flames roared up, burning bright blue now and arcing over the containment circle to meet the blue flame from the red candlestick. Smoke and choking fumes filled the air. Phil squinted for a moment, trying to see what was happening to Clint, but a coughing fit finally overtook him and he fell to his knees as he tried to suck in thick air while his lungs rebelled.

The blue flames burned out while Phil was still choking and writhing on the ground. It seemed to take forever before he could pull in a breath without immediately trying to cough or retch and the smoke had mostly cleared by the time he could see through watering eyes.

Clint sat in the middle of his containment circle, cross-legged and completely unharmed. He held up his book, which had a large hole burned through the middle.

"I want it on record," Clint said, waving the charred remains in Phil's direction, "that this was all your fault so you're paying the fine. OK?"

Phil sighed and rolled onto his back, wondering what he'd done in his life to get stuck with such a stubborn, obnoxious demon.

***

When they finally emerged from the basement, the only illumination in the library came from the security lights over the reference desk and by the main doors. Phil was too wary to attempt any rituals when there were other staff members around, so he'd spent a not insignificant amount of time in the library afterhours over the months he'd worked there. He should have been used to how empty it felt at times like this, but it was still oddly comforting to have Clint at his side as he walked through the building.

One day, he was going to need to have a long talk with himself about this thing where he found a demon comforting. A very long talk.

But that day wasn't today.

Instead he steered Clint gently to the door when he tried to make a detour to the stacks of newly returned books, and he sighed wearily when all he got was a pout in return. Giving Clint a library card had been a great idea, probably, but he'd accidentally fostered an obsession. Who knew that demons could fall in love with stories to the point where they'd leave Froot Loops uneaten in their breakfast bowls when they got too caught up in the action?

Phil ignored Clint's pout and pretended he absolutely definitely wasn't going to let Clint loose with ten bucks in a bookstore tomorrow while he picked up groceries. Nope, definitely not.

It would probably be more like twenty bucks, if he was completely honest with himself.

He shoved Clint out of the door with a stern frown, pausing long enough to set the alarm before following him and locking the door behind them.

"I've only got one unread book left at the apartment," Clint said, a hint of a whine creeping into his voice. "What am I supposed to do tonight?"

"Sleep?"

"Demons don't sleep. I keep telling you."

"And yet I keep hearing snoring from the couch at three AM and you can't seem to open your eyes when it's time to get up," Phil said.

"You're hearing things."

"My imagination isn't that good."

He turned and started walking down the street. After a short pause, he heard quick footsteps behind him as Clint hurried to catch up with him.

"Isn't the subway that way?" Clint said, pointing behind them.

"I need to pick up some supplies," Phil said. "The shop's this way."

"Spell stuff?"

Phil allowed a small smile to lift one corner of his mouth. "Spell stuff. We're running low on some of the key ingredients."

"You're really not going to give up on trying to send me back, are you?"

"There are a lot of books I haven't tried yet," Phil said, "and a couple of ingredients keep coming up in every spell I've read about so far."

"There's a supply shop that's still open at nine on a Saturday night?"

"It's their busiest night."

Clint didn't say anything for half a block and Phil noticed that he was very carefully walking a precise foot and a half from his side, rather than trying to crowd up against him the way Clint usually did. He told himself firmly that he didn't miss the press of Clint's arm against his and, anyway, Clint was an unholy minion from Hell so he shouldn't miss it.

"We're still getting curry on the way home, right?" Clint said eventually.

"I didn't promise that."

"Your promise was implied by your lack of reply when I asked."

"I was reciting a complex spell in two dead languages at the time."

"You didn't even shake your head."

"I was preoccupied."

There was a cheerful grin on Clint's face now, as though arguing had squashed whatever unhappiness he'd been feeling at the mention of trying another banishment spell, and Phil knew that they'd be picking up Indian take out on the way home. Somehow, Clint seemed to win arguments over food far more often than he should. Phil told himself that it was because arguments over food were the only ones Clint ever won--ever would win--but it was getting harder to believe that as time went by.

He stopped at a crosswalk at the end of the next block and glanced at Clint, who was bouncing lightly on his toes with that cheerful grin still firmly in place. The magic shop was on the other side of the street they were waiting to cross, its windows warm and welcoming, and Phil had a worrying thought. An unexpected sense of intuition, maybe.

Clint in a magic shop.

Nothing good could possibly come from it. And if either of the proprietors were sensitive at all, they might work out what Clint was. All the gaps in Phil's knowledge of demons suddenly seemed huge and terrifying because he didn't know who could sense Clint or see through his illusions. The books had all been very sparse on details, probably because most humans weren't stupid enough to keep their demon around for longer than absolutely necessary.

It could be perfectly fine to take Clint into the shop.

But then again, it could be a disaster.

The light changed to 'walk' and they crossed the street. Phil glanced at the shop again and made his decision. He got out his wallet and pulled out a bill, holding it out to Clint. A puzzled expression made lines form between Clint's brows.

"What's that for?" Clint asked.

Phil nodded to the coffee shop a few doors further down the street. "Why don't you get us both something to keep us warm on the way home?"

Clint looked at the bill and then up at the magic shop. "You don't want me going in there."

"I have some concerns."

"You know that I can't do anything you don’t want me to as long as I'm wearing this," Clint said, pushing up his sleeve to show the silver cuff on his wrist. "Just tell me not to touch or take anything and I'll be fine."

"It's not you I'm worried about," Phil said. "It's the other people in there."

Clint tilted his head thoughtfully. "You're worried someone will realise you're consorting with demons?"

"I wouldn't have put it that way."

"You're right, I'm still sleeping on the sofa. Your consorting levels are limited." Clint leered hopefully. "I could change that if--"

"I'm more concerned that someone will see what you are and do something to you," Phil said, before Clint could finish his first real proposition of the day.

"You're worried about me? Aw, Phil. I'm touched."

Phil bit down the obvious response to that, sensing that a comment about Clint's mental state would only lead to another long, winding tangent he didn't have time for right now. He'd learned from the last couple of times when he'd done something similar. Apparently demons did not get mental health problems. Nope, no siree.

"I'm worried about both of us," Phil said briskly. "Demon summoning isn't supposed to be possible. That means I probably shouldn't be advertising that it worked."

Clint grinned. "Ah, gotcha. We're keeping a low profile so nobody starts asking questions and stealing your books to summon one of their own. Not all demons are as charming and amenable as I am. Someone could raise something really scary if they're not careful."

"Something like that."

"Fine, I'll grab us some coffees. Meet you in a few minutes."

He took the bill and hurried away without a backward glance, which suited Phil perfectly and definitely didn't leave him feeling slightly hollow without Clint's presence at his side. Not at all.

The magic shop was bright and warm, and Phil pulled in a deep breath as he entered. The mingled scents of clean herbs and dusty books filled his nose. Sometimes he thought that if he hadn't turned to library science during college, he might have been happy owning a shop like this. _The Shielded Moon_ had only been open for a couple of years and the owners seemed to have looked at the dark, dank magic shops in the rest of the city and made an effort to be different. It was warm and inviting, particularly on cold nights like tonight, and sometimes one of the owners even brought in cupcakes or gingerbread as a treat for her customers.

Tonight Phil was the only customer in the shop and both owners were sitting behind the counter, books spread out around them. The woman looked up as the bell over the door tinkled and she smiled.

"Mr Coulson!" Jemma Simmons said cheerfully. "I didn't expect to see you tonight."

Phil shrugged and walked to the counter. "I've run out of a few supplies and I was in the neighbourhood."

"I thought the library closed at six," Simmons said.

"I had some paperwork to catch up on."

"Paperwork is evil. You wouldn't believe the paperwork that comes with owning a shop like this."

"I might."

Simmons smiled. "What can we get you today, then?"

Phil held out the list he'd made, which included a few extra ingredients that he didn't need to disguise the items that he was using in the banishment spells. Even though Simmons and her partner, Leo Fitz, weren't practitioners, there was always a chance that they might recognise the combination of herbs and coloured sands. They had a reputation for researching some obscure areas of magic, purely for the science of it rather than a serious intention to cast spells.

Sometimes Phil wondered whether Fitz and Simmons knew that some of the spells actually worked. He thought they probably did and he wondered why they weren't using their talents in the underground magic scene. He'd never caught so much as a hint of a rumour that they were casting.

Simmons took the list and read it quickly. "I'll need to get a couple of things from the storeroom. Fitz will package the rest for you."

She elbowed her partner firmly in the ribs and he jolted out of his intense concentration on the book in front of him with a startled expression. The surprise only lasted a moment before he remembered where he was, smiled at Phil, and took the list from Simmons with one longing look at his book. Despite the rude shattering of his concentration, he was quick and efficient as he took down jars from the shelves behind the counter and measured the contents into small packets and bags. Phil wandered away to allowed him to work without feeling watched, and he spent a couple of minutes quietly browsing the small collection of books they sold. Most of them were the typical kitschy tourist crap that every magic shop sold, the kind of books that were entirely harmless but sold well to kids who wanted to pretend at running a coven.

Down on the bottom shelf, Phil recognised a couple of titles that were real introductions to casting and he wondered how Fitz and Simmons made sure those didn't fall into the wrong hands. It was hard enough keeping an eye on the books the library stocked.

"Mr Coulson?" Simmons called, interrupting his thoughts.

Phil straightened up from where he'd been crouching to look at the books and returned to the counter. A large paper bag stood there now and Fitz was putting the last packet into it.

"We're out of the red sand," Simmons said, looking intensely regretful. "There's been quite a run on it over the last couple of weeks. We've given you the last two ounces and we should be getting more in the middle of the week. I'm so sorry."

"That's not a problem," Phil said, fighting to keep his expression as bland as he could manage. "I'll stop by later in the week for some more."

"It's surprising, actually," Simmons said as she rang his order into the till. "We usually go for months without selling any of that. Not many spells call for it. Not many real spells, obviously. And then we sold an entire three pound barrel in ten days."

"Who's buying it?" Phil asked.

He held out his debit card and Simmons took it, tapping it against her chin thoughtfully as she answered. "That's the odd thing. None of them are regulars here. One of them even looked like a banker or an accountant. He was wearing a very good suit, not the usual kind of clientele we get here at all."

"How strange," Phil said carefully.

"It is, isn't it? He didn't look like a practitioner. We thought maybe he was buying supplies for someone else, but it's impossible to know for sure."

"He had scars on his hands," Fitz said absently, his mind obviously mostly back on his book already. "Bankers don't usually have scars like that."

"Maybe he wasn't a banker, just someone who needed to wear a really good three piece suit for a day and he happened to see our shop as he was going past," Simmons said.

"Hmmm."

Phil took his card back and picked up his bag. "There's probably a good explanation."

"I hope so," Simmons said. "I don't think I'd want to be accidentally supplying half a dozen demons summoners."

For a moment, Phil froze. He had to force himself to swallow and keep his voice steady.

"Demon summoners?"

"I know, silly isn't it? There aren't many spells that need red sand and demon summoning is one of the most popular."

"Demon summoning isn't possible," Fitz said. "Demons don't exist. Therefore you can't summon them."

"They might exist."

"They don't."

Phil quickly said his goodbyes and left them to their argument, a sick feeling knotting his stomach as he hurried out. It was definitely a good thing he hadn't taken Clint in there with him. Talk of demons and summoning were much too close to the truth for comfort and Clint would have been itching to prove Fitz wrong.

But somewhere out there, other people were summoning demons. Phil had a very bad feeling about that.

The thought of other demons out there, controlled by people who might not curb their desire for destruction and torn flesh, was frightening. How much damage could a demon do if it was given a target and a purpose? Worse, how much could a demon do if it wasn't controlled and was allowed to roam the city freely? That thought made his entire head hurt with all the terrible possibilities.

On the positive side of the ledger, there hadn't been anything in the news lately that might indicate there were demons on the loose. That probably didn't mean much, not really, but Phil was going to take his bright sides where he could find them. When there were demons around, there probably weren't many good sides to find.

A sound distracted him from his thoughts as he passed a narrow alley. It was barely wide enough to deserve the name, probably not even wide enough to fit a small car through, and Phil had probably passed it dozens of times over the years without really noticing. The sound came again, a low growl, and Phil paused.

The coffee shop was two doors away and there was no sign of Clint waiting outside. He was probably either still waiting in line or he'd been distracted by something sweet and chocolatey and was still debating how to get around Phil's request to buy coffee. Two weeks with the demon had taught Phil that books and sugar were the two things he could guarantee would distract Clint from whatever task he was at.

Part of Phil wanted to walk away without investigating. It could be anything down there--feral dogs came immediately to mind--but he hesitated and the sound came again. The growl didn't sound like a feral dog: it was too angry and there was something else in the sound. Something that made him think of fire and death even though he couldn't have said why.

A woman in a fur coat brushed past him just as the creature in the alley growled again. She didn't pause and her expression didn't flicker. Phil frowned. Whatever was down there couldn't be heard by everyone. Only him.

Only a practitioner who happened to have summoned a demon recently.

Phil peered into the alley, straining to see what was making the sound. A shape moved in the darkness, something too big to be a feral dog. Fear curdled in Phil's gut but he pushed it down, refusing to let it control him even though every sense was crying out to run away.

Phil Coulson had never been a man who ran from things that frightened him.

He stepped into the alley. One pace and then another. The creature growled again and snarled.

Two pinpoints of red light suddenly appeared in the darkness. They were an angry red, burning low and ugly like fire and blood. The lights moved, growing slowly larger, and the low growling became louder as well.

The creature was moving towards him.

Phil almost took a step back but he steadied himself. He put the bag of spell ingredients down on the ground by the wall and reached into his pocket for the heavy silver amulet he always kept there. It was supposed to shield its wielder from harm and he felt the power vibrating in it as he pulled it out and whispered the trigger word.

There was no spectacular shield bubble the way cartoons and artists liked to draw, but the air around Phil became heavy and filled with potential. From his other jacket pocket, he pulled out a small velvet bag that felt reassuringly full in his hand. It would be easy now to back away and go back to the street filled with lights and people. Most people would do that, Phil acknowledged.

He couldn't do it. Whatever was in this alley felt malevolent and he couldn't just ignore it and hope it went away. Not if he wanted to be able to look at himself in the mirror tomorrow, anyway.

Phil took another step forward and then another. The twin red lights moved closer and the growling was now so loud it almost seemed to vibrate through his bones. It made his skin crawl and his hair stand on end and it seemed amazing that nobody out on the street could hear it yet.

The creature howled, the sound echoing through the narrow passage and sending bolts of pure icy fear down Phil's spine and through his heart. Before he had time to recover from the noise, the creature charged at him and hit his shield. The force bowled him over onto his back and the creature landed on him, but the shield held and it could only snarl and claw angrily at the thick air around him.

Phil's breath was coming in harsh, painful gasps but he loosened the tie on the bag on his hand and threw the powder inside at the creature's face. The shield--clever, magical shield--allowed it through and the blue dust glowed as it landed on the thick black fur and twisted snout above him. For a moment Phil thought it was going to work: his assailant shook its head muzzily and the fire in its eyes dimmed to angry red coals.

The effects didn't last. Red eyes flamed brighter than ever and the creature made a strange barking sound that almost deafened Phil. Its head swung closer again and it drooled as it opened its mouth to bite. There was no way the shield would last through another attack and Phil was out of ideas. He glared up at the creature defiantly, prepared to fight to the end with his bare hands if he had to.

He didn't have to.

Something yanked the creature away and Phil heard a crunching sound as it flew into a wall and fell to the floor. There was a loud yell that sounded almost familiar, but it was speaking a language that made Phil's ears hurt to hear. Light filled the alley, the bright fierce glow of hellfire and demon magic.

Clint stood over him in his natural shape, his red skin gleaming in the light and his tail lashing angrily behind him. The tattoo on Clint's back stood out proudly, the black ink edged with fire where the strange design twisted down his spine to curl around the base of his tail. Even though Phil had seen Clint's demon form before, he'd never seen Clint like this: filled with power and demonic rage. It was enough to take away the breath he'd only just recovered, and all he could do was lie on the ground and watch as Clint charged the huge dog-like creature that had been attacking him.

One huge blow from Clint's fist rocked the thing back another few feet and it whimpered before rolling onto its feet and bracing for Clint's next attack. Clint didn't pause; he ran forward and leaped onto the creature's back, locking his arms around its neck and holding on as it tried to buck him off. Phil struggled to a half-sitting position in time to see Clint bend forward and bite the creature in the back of its thick, meaty neck.

There was another whimper and something that looked like mingled flame and blood began to trail down its side. Clint lifted his face, now smeared with a liquid that flickered and shone with its own light, and the muscles in his arms and neck strained as he wrenched back on the creature's throat. He held on as it fought against him, his legs digging into the huge hound's sides for leverage until there was a loud, ugly cracking sound. The light in the creature's eyes went out as its head snapped back, but it shuddered and staggered for several steps before finally toppling over.

The creature fell with a loud crash and a final, dying whimper. Its fiery blood went dark and the alley filled with the stench of rotten eggs and charcoal. Whatever light Clint had set when he entered the alley also went out, so Phil had to strain to make out the dim shape of Clint lying under the creature he'd just killed with his hands and teeth.

"Are you alright?" Phil asked quietly.

There was a long pause before Clint replied and his voice sounded shaken. "I think so?"

Oh.

Phil took a slow, deep breath, wincing as a strained muscle pulled in his shoulder. He carefully pushed himself up to sit with his legs drawn up and an arm around his knees. The new position and the faint orange glow from a streetlight at the alley's entrance gave him a slightly better view of Clint, lying on his back with the huge furry creature across his legs. His horns peeked out of his wild hair and caught the light and the tip of his tail was still twitching but not lashing furiously the way it had done. The tattoo had gone completely dark again.

"What was that?" Phil asked. "And why didn't anyone else notice us?"

Clint didn't answer for a long time. After a while, he pushed the corpse of his legs with a visible effort and crawled across the dirty ground to sit a few feet away from Phil, mirroring his position. There were streaks of something dark and sticky on his bare skin, but for once, Phil didn't really notice his nakedness.

"The only people who could see in here are people who have had contact with...the place I come from," Clint said eventually. "There probably aren't many people in New York who have had that honour. Me. You."

"The other people summoning demons?"

"Shit." Clint scrubbed a hand through his hair distractedly, not even bothering to deny that he knew there were other demon summoners around. "Shit. Guess we were lucky there weren't any of them wandering by at the wrong moment."

"I guess we were. What was that?"

"Can we talk about this at home?" Clint said. "I'll feel a lot better being somewhere safer. We're exposed here."

Phil snorted. "You're a lot more exposed than I am."

"Wh--"

Clint looked down and Phil was surprised to see darker spots of red appear in his cheeks. In anyone else, Phil might have thought that was a blush. Could demons feel anything that...human? 

"Oh. Sorry. Yeah, I guess I lost concentration for a minute," Clint said, sounding almost sheepish. The air around him shimmered for a moment. "Better?"

He was wearing the dark jeans and heavy coat he'd been wearing when they left the library and his skin was a normal flesh tone. Phil told himself firmly that he didn't miss Clint's tail at all.

"Better," Phil confirmed. "New Yorkers are liberal, but a naked demon might be pushing it when Halloween is still a couple of weeks ago."

"So I could be a naked demon on Halloween?"

"...No."

A smirk appeared on Clint's lips, an expression so familiar that Phil almost felt relieved. It was obviously Clint's best attempt to distract him from the reality of what had just happened, but it was an attempt he appreciated even though Clint was going to be obnoxious about his momentary lapse.

"I'll remember you said that," Clint said cheerfully. "Can we still get curry on the way home? I talk better on a full stomach."

"Shouldn't we do something about that?" Phil said, gesturing to the corpse.

It was already starting to fill the alley with a stink of rot and sulphur and, as Phil watched, it seemed to shrink and collapse into a pile of fur and disgusting flesh.

"It's already being taken care of," Clint said. "In five minutes, there won't be a trace of it. That's the good bit about those things: body removal comes as part of the package."

"What is it?"

"Just...trust me, it's better if we talk about it inside your wards instead of in a dark alley. OK?"

Phil caught a glimpse, for just a moment, of Clint's tightly pressed lips and worried eyes before the expression was replaced with a dazzling grin that had to be faked. He nodded and didn't say anything else.

***

"So, what was that thing trying to turn me into a chew toy?" Phil asked.

The dining table was littered with dishes of curry and rice and there was a small mountain of poppadum in the middle of the table next to a big bowl of mango chutney. Phil hadn't been able to say no when Clint gave him a sad, hungry look so he'd bought far more food than he'd intended to and Clint had almost inhaled half the order of lamb rogan josh before they even sat down. 

Clint grabbed a poppadum and snapped off a piece to scoop up a large dollop of chutney. He chewed carefully before answering.

"That...that was a hellhound," Clint said. "A small one."

"A small...hellhound. In New York."

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

Phil raised an eyebrow and Clint had the grace to look embarrassed.

"Why was there a hellhound in an alley?" Clint glanced down at the poppadum he was absently breaking into small pieces on Phil's clean tablecloth. "I guess you're not going to accept that it's better for you not to know, are you?"

"You guess right," Phil said. "If you hadn't arrived when you did--how did you know what was happening, anyway?"

"I'd been waiting at the coffee shop for ages so I went looking for you. Something felt off and I got concerned."

"You worried about me?"

Clint made a face. "No. Obviously. Demon, remember? We don't get attached like that. But you're the guy with the key to the wards keeping me safe and to my freedom and that means I have to look out for you. For now."

"For now, of course," Phil said, looking down at his plate to hide his smile. "So, you came looking for me?"

"Yeah. And I saw the shield over the alley--the one that stopped all those innocent bystanders seeing anything--so I figured that was where you had to be."

"You didn't think I might have just walked by like everyone else?"

"Fuck no, you're not that kind of guy. You could see through it so you investigated. Right?"

Phil looked up and this time he let Clint see his small smile. "Right. Big mistake on my part."

"It could have been, yeah. Guess you got lucky that I got bored."

"You still haven't explained why there was a hellhound for me to find in the first place," Phil said.

Clint's brow wrinkled in an unhappy frown. "You really need to know?"

"Can you promise me that was the only one? That I won't turn around and find another one ready to tear my throat out the next time I'm on my own somewhere?"

For a long, tense moment, Clint didn't say anything. He looked like he was searching for an answer in the poppadum crumbs and what he was seeing wasn't helping him.

"No," Clint said quietly. "I can't promise that. There might be more. There might be other things."

"Does this have anything to do with whatever was testing my wards the night after you arrived?"

Clint blinked. "Something tried to get in here? So soon?"

"The wards held," Phil said. "You were too excited about pizza to notice anything."

"You worked me like a slave that day. Speaking of work--"

"Clint," Phil said firmly. "No. No more tangents. I think that I deserve an explanation now, don't you? I can order you to tell me if I have to."

Clint swallowed visibly. Phil half-expected him to do something sneaky, try to distract him with unexpected nakedness the way he sometimes did, but he remained fully clothed and completely human. After another long, worrying pause, Clint nodded and his shoulders dropped in a defeated slump.

"Some shit went down...back there," he said, meeting Phil's gaze steadily. "Back in Hell. My brother and I got into a thing and it went bad. Really, really bad. I was running when I felt your spell. I've got no idea where Barney was by then, but I intercepted the imp you were going to pull through and got myself through instead. You really should have made sure you specified more carefully in the spell parameters. Anything could have come through."

"I'll remember that for the future," Phil said dryly.

"Make sure you do. Anyway, I came through and you caught me. I guess someone figured out where I went. The hellhound was probably supposed to be tracking me--they can be fucking sneaky when they want to be--and it got side-tracked when you noticed it and got in its face."

"So if I'd walked past--"

"It would have left you alone and carried on tracking me. We might not have known about it for a while yet."

Phil scooped up a forkful of rice and curry and chewed thoughtfully. "Will they send another one?"

"I don't know."

"That's...not very reassuring."

"If they don't send another hellhound, they'll send something else. Something we won't see coming."

"That's even less reassuring," Phil said.

"I don't have to be your problem," Clint said. "Set me free and I'll make sure you never hear from me again."

"Set a demon free in New York City? How about, no."

"I promise not to hurt anyone."

Phil smiled thinly. "If I set you free, what will make sure you keep that promise?"

"My good word?" Clint sighed. "Yeah, fuck, you're right. I can't be trusted. I wouldn't trust me. I know me."

"Do you know how I can send you back?" Phil said. "The truth this time. It's important."

Clint took a deep breath. "No. Like I said before, most people don't let me sit around reading that much and they're protective about the spells they use. Even if I'd actually heard the full ritual--which I haven't--I don't know what the ingredients are for the incense and shit they use. All I know is that you'd need something a lot more powerful than the spells you've been using because I'm nothing like the imps you've been trying to banish."

That was a terrifying thought all on its own. Phil had hugely underestimated Clint's power, and it seemed incredible that the binding cuffs were having any effect on him if he was that strong.

Another, even more frightening thought occurred: Clint clearly was being controlled by the cuffs, Phil had no doubt of that, which meant they were also a lot more powerful than Phil had realised. What was his predecessor at the library doing with implements to control a demon like Clint just lying around in a drawer in his office?

"If I could send you back, what would happen to you?" Phil asked, pushing all the other thoughts aside for consideration at another, less urgent time.

"Trust me, you don't want to know. Nasty stuff. Really nasty stuff. Eternal flaming torment kind of shit."

"What did you do?"

Clint's smile was bitter and angry. "Trust me, you don't want to know that either. It's safer for you if you don't."

"Why should I believe you?"

"Because I haven't lied since we sat down. I've not even lied that much since you pulled me out of Hell. I'm a lot of things, but I mostly tell the truth."

Phil searched his face carefully, looking for he didn't know what. It wasn't as though Clint had any tells he could use, apart from that curiously defensive chin tilt thing he did when he was feeling uncomfortable or out of place. Clint met his eyes and Phil was suddenly absolutely certain that it was taking all of Clint's will power to hold still. To not give away how desperate his situation was and how much he needed Phil's protection.

It was a terrifying thought. It was horrific.

It made something warm uncurl in Phil's gut that took him a minute to recognise. When did he start to care about Clint?

"You're my problem," Phil said slowly. "No, that's not right actually. I brought you here, I can't just abandon you. I can't let you roam around New York on your own, I can't let whatever is coming for you just take you. And I couldn't send you back even if I knew how because I don't think you're as evil as you claim to me."

"Demon, remember? Kind of the opposite of a helpless fluffy kitten."

Phil shrugged. "I know. And I know you're not a fluffy kitten either. You've made that pretty clear now. Your tail was doing a good angry cat impression earlier, though."

Clint snorted and a hint of a smile appeared for the first time. "Stupid tail."

"It's not that bad."

"You actually like it? Because I could make it--"

"Whatever you're about to suggest, no," Phil said. "You keep using your body to distract me from anything you don't want to talk about and I'm not letting you do that today."

"Aw, Phil."

"Clint. Thank you for saving my life."

Clint opened and closed his mouth a couple of times and made an odd squeaking sound but nothing coherent came out. Phil wondered whether this was the first time anyone had ever actually thanked him for anything. It probably was.

Oh.

"I'm not throwing you out," Phil said when it was obvious Clint really couldn't say anything. "We'll figure this out somehow. For now, we'll stick to public places when you aren't in a warded building and I'll make sure I carry some extra firepower."

"You'd really do that?"

"I would."

Clint muttered something Phil couldn't quite hear before shovelling a huge spoonful of rice and curry into his mouth and grinning happily. Phil suspected they'd been quiet words of thanks and he didn't bother to ask Clint to repeat them. It was obvious from his expression and the tension bleeding away from his frame that Clint was relieved and thankful, even if his demonic dignity wouldn't let him acknowledge it out loud.

They finished their food and cleared away in silence, but it wasn't an uncomfortable one. It almost felt like a friendly silence and Phil didn't even mind much when Clint deliberately bumped against him a couple of times. The touches seemed to ground and steady Clint, which somehow made Phil feel better.

When everything was cleared away, Phil started toward his bedroom door intending to read for a while before sleeping. It was late and they'd fallen into a routine that gave Clint free reign in the living area after supper, mostly because otherwise Clint seemed to deliberately parade around in the skimpiest underwear he could conjure up and remain within the minimal clothing standards rule.

"Hey," Clint said as Phil's hand touched the doorknob. "Do you, maybe, want to watch a movie?"

Phil turned, ready to refuse, but the words caught in his throat. Clint had changed his clothes while Phil's back was turned, but he was wearing ragged old jeans and a grey Henley instead of a t-shirt and tight boxer briefs. His feet were bare and there was an unexpectedly hopeful look in his eyes.

The sensible, intelligent answer would be a friendly refusal and a strategic retreat to the bedroom behind a locked door.

"What did you have in mind?" Phil asked.

Apparently being sensible wasn't in his future anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> There's nothing in here that's more graphic than I've read in some YA novels, but there is a fight with a hellhound in here. I don't think there's much gore, but there's blood and the death of a supernatural creature so read at your own risk.


End file.
